


Sound of Silence

by GraceTyabb



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Angst, Canonical Character Death, Kink Meme, M/M, Mild Gore, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-02
Updated: 2013-02-02
Packaged: 2017-11-27 22:04:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/666985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GraceTyabb/pseuds/GraceTyabb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fill for a prompt at the Les Miserables Kink Meme: "AU in which Marius blows the barricade, and Courfeyrac wakes amidst the rubble, not knowing which of his friends lived and died. Courf stumbles around, grief-stricken, searching for bodies, searching for anyone who might have survived. Eventually, he ends up at one of their pre-ordained safe-houses for barricade survivors, and finds one of the Ami there, similarly grief-stricken and waiting. Cue desperate/comforting "I thought I was the only one left" sex."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sound of Silence

**Author's Note:**

> Fill for a prompt on the Les Mis Kink Meme (http://makinghugospin.livejournal.com/9761.html?thread=785697#t785697)  
> Title from the Simon and Garfunkel song "Sound of Silence". I knew I'd never find a song I was happy with, since this really sort of has two different tones, but this was the closest I got. I would recommend listening to the Kina Grannis version to those who haven't, it's quite good.
> 
> This isn't my first kink meme fill, but it is the first time I've written smut and I'm pretty damn nervous about it so any feedback would be greatly appreciated. Enjoy.

“Get back!” Marius cried. “Get back or I blow the barricade!”

He can remember sitting silently, watching, pulled taut like a violin string and holding his breath, as if even the slightest disturbance would cause Marius suddenly blow the whole barricade sky high. The torch in his hand already strayed far too close to the barrel of gunpowder for Courfeyrac’s liking, and he certainly wasn’t going to be the one to push Marius any further. Instead he watches as Marius and the army officer stare each other down, panting and dirty and tired but with strength in their eyes Courfeyrac could not fathom.

“Blow it up and take yourself with it!” The officer replies, a mixture of stubborn will and fear leaking into his voice.

Marius pauses for a moment, seemingly thinking the idea over, and Courfeyrac feels a flicker of hope that Marius – predictable, reliable Marius – will back down.

Instead, he simply repeats the phrase, “and myself with it,” and touches the flame to the barrel with steadier hands than he had ever retained before.

 

Before the officer’s cries of ‘back, back’ can reach anyone but Marius and a few of the men closest to then, a flash of light brighter than anything you can imagine filled his vision, and all was dark, and there was nothing to be remembered.

* * *

 

When Courfeyrac awakes, it is to the smell of burning first. His vision doesn’t come back until he’s had far too much time to think about the different smells things make when they burn. Wood and cloth and furniture, that’s all familiar, especially with an accident-prone friend like Bousset, but the smell of burning flesh is enough for him to turn from his back to his side and retch onto the ground.

“Oh God,” he groans, wiping his mouth with a slightly burned and slightly bloodied hand, before his eyes catch on the shape of Marius only a few feet away.

The closer Courfeyrac crawls the worse the image becomes; Marius took the brunt of the explosion, and the flesh torn from his face and arms shows this horrifically. He is burned beyond recognition, but Courfeyrac knows it’s him, because Marius is his best friend and no one else he knows wears clothes quite like Marius does. He turns away and retches again, but there is nothing else to expel. None of the Les Amis had eaten properly after the barricades went up.

_Les Amis._

“Oh, God.” Courfeyrac was on his feet, his burned hand tucked into his jacket, in less than a moment, and only then it became clear that he was the only one standing. His hands were shaking, his breath coming out in short, stunted gasps. He wanted to pace, but instead limped about the area, identifying each man in turn and becoming more and more desperate for someone to just _get up._

Tears are running down his face, and he only has time to gently brush Jehan’s hair out of his face before he’s over to Joly, slumped down beside Bousset, together as they should be. It pains him to know that, in order to be leaning against the wall the way they are, both of them must have sustained their injuries and lived long enough to drag themselves there. He touches each of his friends once, shaking them and checking their pulses, ascertaining each is gone before moving on.

‘ _I can’t be the last. I can’t... I can’t.’_ His thoughts are a whirlpool, but between his tears and his growing sense of dread he sees the streak of red paint above the doorway of a nearby building.

He can clearly remember sitting around a table in the Musain, planning with Enjolras that any safe houses to be found around the barricade sites would be marked with such a red stripe. If any of his friends were left alive, they would be inside.

“Please, please, please,” he chanted, wiping a few of his tears away and pushing open the door with his side roughly, almost toppling over in his desire to get inside.

It’s empty. Courfeyrac can see the entirety of the small house from the door, with all other entrances boarded shut, and it’s painfully empty. A sob escapes him, deep and loud and such a noise as he could never have imagined himself making before _this._ He sinks to the floor as if all life has left him.

“Courfeyrac.”

The voice is familiar and blessedly loud in the silence, and Courfeyrac has just enough of a right mind to turn to the corner blocked from view by the door he opened. There, sitting against the wall with his legs splayed out before him limply, was Combeferre. He was dirtier and bloodier than Courfeyrac can ever remember him being, even during their short time at the barricade, but in all honesty he’s never been happier to see him.

“’Ferre,” he breathes, eyes wide and teary, reaching out slightly. Combeferre is looking at him through lanky locks of brown hair, eyes as red rimmed and cheeks as wet as he imagines his own must be, but the relief is clear in his eyes. He, too, reaches out an arm.

Courfeyrac slides across the floor, too eager to properly stand, clasping his hand in Combeferre’s shakily. He was there, and he was alive. _He was not alone._

And then, before he knows it, he’s in Combeferre’s lap and he’s _kissing him,_ for God’s sake, muttering and sobbing between each meeting of their lips.

“I was so scared – I thought there was no one – I thought I was--”

“I know,” Combeferre mutters back, hands would tightly in the fabric over his waist, lips pressing back just as insistently. “I know, I know.” His hands are in Combeferre’s dulled brown hair, and he’s so afraid that if he lets go, he will cease to exist. He presses his lips to the space between Combeferre’s neck and shoulder, and feels his friend – if such a title still applies – wrapping his arms tightly about Courfeyrac’s waist, pulling him as close as possible. For a moment they just sit silently, soaking in the presence of each other. The pain in Courfeyrac’s hand is a dull throb now, but he cannot stop himself from clutching Combeferre’s torn sleeve with white-knuckled strength. Combeferre presses a soft kiss to his temple every few seconds. The relief that flows through him is stronger than anything he’s ever felt before.

“We’re alive.” He breathes, watching the tiny hairs on Combeferre’s neck stand to attention as his breath catches them. A sound escapes the brunette, almost a chuckle were it not so breathy, and his grip on his curly haired companion somehow tightened.

“Yes,” he replied, “we’re alive.”

As inopportune as the moment was, Courfeyrac had always been a physical specimen, who showed his emotions in physical ways. One could argue Courfeyrac was not in his right mind, but the facts stood as they were; one, Combeferre seemed more than eager to let his friend kiss him and hold him and sit in his lap; and two, nothing would make Courfeyrac feel better, feel _alive,_ than getting fucked into the floor.

As such, his pulled away from Combeferre’s grasp and quickly got his good hand to pulling open Combeferre’s pants.

“Courf--” Combeferre choked, grasping Courfeyrac’s arms and attempting to pull him away. Courfeyrac stilled and turned his head up to look his friend in the eye, searching for a refusal. Courfeyrac would never do anything to Combeferre, or any of his friends, that would hurt them. But there in Combeferre’s eyes was a reflection of his own; a sadness, a relief, an abated fear and a need for confirmation. Confirmation that he was alive. And deeper, below all of that, the glowing coals of need.

Courfeyrac stretched his neck for his lips to meet Combeferre’s again, igniting action in him. His grip on Courfeyrac’s arms loosened just enough for him to properly unbutton Combeferre’s pants, reaching in and grasping his manhood tightly. Combeferre gasped, opening his mouth wide enough for the other boy to slip his tongue inside, and then he was reaching around to slide Courfeyrac’s own trousers down past his hips. Growling in frustration, Combeferre lifted Courfeyrac from his lap just long enough to slide the dark haired boy’s trousers off to the point they dangled from only one leg before dropping him, fingers sliding down his back towards his ass.

“Wait,” Courfeyrac gasped, blindly grasping behind him to grab Combeferre’s hand and drag it towards his face, taking three fingers into his mouth and tonguing them obscenely. Combeferre watched through hooded eyes, grip tightening on Courfeyrac’s hip enough to bruise the already mottled skin, erection straining against Courfeyrac’s as he rocked to his own rhythm. The curly haired boy moaned at the friction, coating Combeferre’s fingers liberally in his saliva before releasing them, guiding the hand back before Combeferre took control again, circling Courfeyrac’s entrance with one finger shortly before pushing inside.

Courfeyrac groaned low, grasping at Combeferre’s member again, breath hitching each time the brunette added another finger, scissoring and pumping them inside him. They were both glistening with sweat, smoothing the slide of their skin. The tip of Combeferre’s middle finger brushed Courfeyrac’s prostate, causing him to let out an even lower moan, should such a thing have been possible. At this, Courfeyrac raised his hips, prompting Combeferre to remove his fingers and circle Courfeyrac’s hips with his hands. With his own hands upon Combeferre’s shoulders, Courfeyrac sunk down upon Combeferre’s manhood, fighting through the pain and bottoming out in a matter of seconds. He rolled his hips experimentally, allowing Combeferre to grasp him tightly and lift him, dropping him back down upon his member and forcefully hitting Courfeyrac’s prostate with unbelievable accuracy. Courfeyrac threw his head back as he cried out, leaving Combeferre more than enough space to lean forward and mouth at his neck.

The two continued for a short while though neither cared for how long they remained in the safe house, with Combeferre lifting Courfeyrac and bringing him back down, before Courfeyrac took control himself to increase the speed of his movements, rising and falling swiftly with a nearly continuous moan. Both were panting shallowly, Courfeyrac’s hands tightening and releasing the fabric on Combeferre’s shoulders as the brunette ran kisses from Courfeyrac’s ear, down his neck to his collarbone.

Courfeyrac came first with a shout, painting them both, and Combeferre followed soon after with a quiet grunt into Courfeyrac’s neck. Courfeyrac leaned limply into his companion, arms wrapping around his shoulders and pressing their foreheads together.

They breathed each other’s air shallowly, eyes open, afraid to look away.

Courfeyrac could not bring himself to think of anything beyond the colour of Combeferre’s eyes.


End file.
